


Gravenstafel Ridge

by Seulkie



Series: To Arms, Boys! [5]
Category: 20th century - Fandom, History - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: 20th Century, Gen, History, Original Character(s), World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seulkie/pseuds/Seulkie
Summary: April 1915 - Belgium





	Gravenstafel Ridge

Remi stood in attention with the other men in his company, but his focus was not on the general barking out orders in front of them. The march to the front had been filled with chatter about new uniforms and lice, and even now the other soldier’s minds still lingered on the latter. Remi stared straight ahead, arms firmly at his sides while his fingers twitched under the sleeves of his coat, fighting the urge to scratch. The muted thoughts of those around him indicated he wasn’t alone. His division had finally received their new light blue uniforms at the beginning of the month, which provided a short relief from the lice which constantly infested their clothes. However, it wasn't long until the new uniforms were also ravaged by the pests. With everyone’s thoughts still on the lice, Remi found it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Then they were dismissed, and Remi crossed his arms and turned to Claude, scratching at his shoulders.

“Nobody could stop thinking about the damned lice, so I missed everything Masson said.” He grumbled.

Claude gave him a half smile - he was also starting to reach his wits end with the vermin of the front lines. 

“Apparently the Germans have been pretty quiet recently, so there shouldn’t be too much trouble.” Claude nodded behind Remi, “We’re over that way.”

The two weaved through the network of trenches, passing a few British divisions along the way. Occasionally, the Tommies would shout a poorly accented French greeting in hopes of striking up conversation, but would quickly lapse back into English before Remi had a chance to respond. When Claude replied in English, though, the Tommies erupted with joy, and they would exchange garbled banter for a time before Claude said his farewells and moved onwards. Remi felt a twinge of envy every time Claude spoke English, and wished he could say anything other than “hello”, “goodbye”, “please”, “thank you”, and “look out”.

At one point, they passed a group of Algerian soldiers who all but ignored them except for a few glances in their direction. Many of them were huddled in their coats, and a few wore scarves, hats, and gloves. They chatted amongst themselves quietly.

Remi jogged a bit to catch up to Claude before muttering, “They don’t speak French very well, do they?”

Claude shot Remi an amused look, then asked, “Do you know what a ‘dialect’ is?”

Remi’s face grew warm, and he looked down at the ground while muttering, “Yeah, of course, I just…” He trailed off, hoping Claude would drop the subject.

“How many languages do you speak?”

This question caught Remi off guard, and it took him a second to respond.

“Just French.”

“Mhmm, well they probably speak Arabic, too, and likely another language that you haven’t even heard of.” Claude said. “Now, have you ever been forced to learn the language of an invading power, and then have to go fight its wars in far away places you couldn’t give less of a shit about?”

Remi didn’t respond to Claude’s final question. His face was now hot with embarrassment despite the cool wind, which whistled and moaned as it ripped through the trenches. All the soldiers shivered with the squalls, and Remi now found himself wishing he, too, had a scarf, or even some gloves.

They passed some more British troops before Claude gestured over the edge of the trench. He scaled the ladder, then disappeared into the tangle of barbed wire. Remi swallowed as he felt every muscle clench in fear, and he found himself unable to move forward. Every part of him was screaming to turn and run the other way, to go anywhere other than No Man’s Land where he would be exposed to the hateful bullets and shells of the Germans. He desperately wanted to run, but instead he took an automatic step towards the ladder, an unknown force driving him forward. The slick, wooden beams were cool to the touch, and Remi gripped them tightly as they creaked and bowed with every step. Soon he was out of the trench and crawling underneath the wire, dragging his shaking body forward through the thick mud.

“It’s strange, Claude,” Remi said once they were settled in their hole, “I’ve heard a few German thoughts here and there, but none that I have been able to really signal out like usual. They are too focused on something else, I think.”

Claude nodded slowly. “It sounds like they are moving things around.”

Both of them listened to the low rumbles and monotonous sounds of men working from across the field. Very rarely did a German become careless enough to stick his head over the trench and as the minutes turned into hours, they concluded it was going to be an uneventful patrol. Remi didn’t mind, though, and he was sure Claude didn’t, either. Any time he was able to get a break from the onslaught of trench thoughts that came with the front was precious, and Remi was certain Claude wasn’t nearly as thrilled about killing as he pretended to be.

Then Claude sat up straighter and squinted his eyes.

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing farther down the trenches. In the distance, great black cylinders had been set up, looming over the German lines like shadows.

Remi shrugged, “Who knows what the Bosch are doing anymore.” He said.

Claude continued to stare at them. “It worries me… Masson said they have been strangely quiet lately; they must be planning something big.”

Remi dug out a piece of paper and a pencil from one of his pockets and began scribbling random shapes in the corner. Now that they were out in the field, the paralyzing fear that had almost consumed him earlier was gone. He knew he no longer had control over whether he lived or died, and somehow that was a comfort. There was no escape from the artillery, and if the Germans launched an offensive, he could pretend to be one of the many corpses lying across the earth, but otherwise they were completely exposed. Their lives rested in the unforgiving hands of chance.

“I think you are concerning yourself over nothing. It’s probably just different paint.” Remi thought for a moment, then added with a sly grin, “Maybe they are trying to scare us. They have realised that we simply cannot be beaten, and their last hope is to intimidate us into surrender with scary colours.”

This made Claude laugh, though he tried to hide it. Remi’s grin widened, and he stretched out a bit before going back to his drawing, satisfied that both their nerves were calmed. Since the sun had risen, it had become quite a bit warmer, so he took off his helmet, allowing the wind to blow through his hair.

The front remained relatively quiet throughout the morning, which suited Remi just fine. It was moments like these that reminded him the world could be gentle, and that he didn’t have to fight against it all the time. The earth wasn’t straining to hold him down, or to swallow him up and keep him forever; it simply sat beneath him, offering a safe and solid support. For a moment, Remi felt like he could stand up and stroll through the meadow, carefree and content, while the grass sprung up at his feet, but he knew better. He knew it was all an illusion, and even so much as sitting up straight meant a bullet in the head.

Then something else occurred to him: this wasn’t how the world was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to be full of fire and smoke, but that was the only way Remi saw it anymore. The times when the earth was still and the sky clear - those were the abnormalities now. His heart sank. Was he going to be able to unlearn all of this off when the war ended? And, would the war ever end for him? Even after peace is announced, would he be able to unsee the world as a hostile beast, trying endlessly to destroy him? The pinnacle of youth, 20 full years of life, reduced to killing men not so different from himself, or the British, or the Algerians, and for what? So withdrawn generals can send thousands more to their deaths in new, exciting ways in the name of victory. Victory for who?

“Do you play anything else besides Cello?” Claude’s words ripped through Remi’s thoughts, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear them. He focused on Claude’s sunken face, which was still shrouded in worry, and noticed for the first time how old he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes - a permanent fixture from chronic insomnia, he had once explained - and fine lines carved into his cheeks and forehead. It then struck him that he was probably thinking out-loud, and this was Claude’s way of changing the subject.

“I play piano, and was becoming pretty good on the saxophone before the war broke out. ” Remi replied, still somewhat in a fog from having his thoughts interrupted. “What about you? Err- I mean, not music, but…” Remi cleared his throat, then asked, “Do you play anything?”

Claude chuckled again, this time a genuine one. He seemed more relaxed, as well.

“I don’t play any instruments, no. And my singing voice sounds like a dying horse, so don’t even bother asking about that.”

Now it was Remi’s turn to laugh. “Ok, well remember at Christmas? You were translating between all of us like it was nothing, and earlier this morning on the walk out here, you were talking with the Tommies. How many languages do you speak?”

Claude thought for a moment, then said, “French, German, Dutch, English, and Polish, and I can use Latin well enough.” 

Remi's eyes widened. "Wow, really? That's amazing. So why the hell are you out here in the mud and not working as a liaison officer, or a translator?" 

Claude snorted. "Please, they only let really special blokes go to the liaison and translation training, and I don't have any real connections. I don't think they would trust me, anyways." The amusement on his face suddenly turned to shame as he quietly added, “My mother is from Germany, but she married a Frenchman and moved to Paris long before the war, and is now as French as you and me.” There was a tone of urgency in his voice by the end, and Remi suspected Claude didn’t always receive the warmest remarks when saying his mother was German. It was understandable, given the current circumstances, but unfortunate nonetheless. 

“I still was raised speaking both languages, though,” he continued, “and when I was around 10, I kind of had this realisation that Dutch and German aren’t very different, so I taught myself Dutch. After lycée, I decided to take the B track, since I actually enjoyed learning Latin in school but felt English would be more useful than Greek. Then, by the time I was 22, had decided I wanted to learn a language that would actually challenge me, so I continued studying Latin and English, but started learning Polish at the same time. I was going to learn Russian next, but I got called up to serve and had to halt my studies. My professors still write to me, though, and send me books and papers to read.” A smile spread across Claude's face as he thought about his professors. "I can even write to them asking for a specific book, and it's likely they will get it to me."

Remi was about to express his amazement, but Claude abruptly looked away and stared off into the distance.

“Wait, they’re gone.” He exclaimed. He had immediately fallen back into a state of high alert.

Remi turned around, and sure enough, the black cylinders were no longer there. They had vanished just as mysteriously as they had appeared. A feeling of uneasiness came over him, and his stomach turned.

“They must have realised that we French aren’t so easily intimidated.” Remi joked, trying to hide his growing anxiety.

‘Can you hear anything they are saying?’ Claude thought. The sudden clarity of his voice caused Remi to jump. ‘Can you… I don’t know, somehow let me hear what they are thinking? So I can try and figure out what’s happening?’

Remi shot him a scornful look. ‘I can barely keep my own thoughts under control, and you and I both know I still can’t block out other people’s entirely. Do you seriously think I can open up a secret one-way telepathic communication line between you and a random German?’ Remi rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. ‘Besides, don’t you think I would have already done that since learning you spoke perfect German if I could?’

Claude let out a harsh sigh before muttering, “It really worries me what’s going on over there is all.”

“Yeah, I know, I can tell.” Remi said flatly. He took out a fresh sheet of paper, this time starting on a letter to his family. “But it’s like you tell me, there is nothing we can do out here except shoot and worry, and worrying doesn’t win wars.”

Pursing his lips, Claude nodded and said nothing. Remi stared at him a bit, trying to hear what he was thinking, but Claude was carefully keeping his thoughts in check. When Claude didn’t say anything more, Remi shook his head and returned to his letter.

The afternoon dragged on with short, scattered conversations, but mostly the two men occupied themselves with individual pastimes, shooting occasionally between long periods of stillness. The sounds of work coming from the German trenches persisted. Remi had just fired his second shot of the day when Claude shifted.

“They’re back.” He whispered.

Remi lowered his rifle and squinted down the field, and sure enough, the black cylinders had returned. Now, he was concerned. He tried to swallow the fear building in his chest, but his dry throat made him cough instead. Remi extended a quivering arm towards his bag and removed his rum rations, unscrewing the cap and taking large gulps.

‘There will probably be a bombardment tonight.’ Remi thought while he drank. ‘Let us hope they don’t follow up with an attack.’

Claude also took out his rum and started drinking. ‘Yes, let’s hope.’ He thought back.

No sooner had Remi removed the bottle from his lips than a cloud of yellow-green mist rose up from the German trenches. With the help of the wind, it inched across No Man’s Land, quiet as a whisper. It was like a wave of ghosts were slowly traversing the land, shrouding the world in nothingness. Remi simply stared, unmoving, at the growing mass.

“What… What is it?” He finally asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Claude shook his head, eyes wide in shock. “I don’t know. Some kind of gas? Maybe the Bosch are trying to give themselves some cover before advancing. It's a strange colour, though.”

All of a sudden, the air became sharp, causing both men to gasp and gag. They buried their faces in their sleeves, but it did little good against the stinging smell. Scattered coughs could be heard coming from the allied trench, increasing steadily with every passing second. Soon enough, their clothes absorbed the fumes and became just as pungent as the air, which burned their throats as they struggled to breathe. Their skin started to tingle as the wave crept over the barbed wire, unhindered, and seeped into the trenches

Then, the trenches erupted into chaos and screams, their panic amplifying their thoughts so Remi could hear them again. There were too many different languages for him to single out every French thought, but he picked up small words and phrases which were as loud and shrill as a train whistle: 'RUN!......... RUUUN!......... WHAT IS IT?......... IT BURNS!......... I CAN’T BREATHE!......... CAN’T SEE!......... I’M DROWNING!.........' Remi covered his ears. The voices were accompanied by the sounds of choking and gurgling. He could feel their thirst, followed by extreme pain. Don’t drink… Remi concluded, and he repeated those words to himself over and over until the other thoughts were muted again.

Men poured out of the trenches like ants, scattering in all directions. They were mostly the Algerian soldiers, and their panicked screams made Remi’s blood run cold. As they ran, they gripped their throats tightly, and Remi could see their chins and front of their uniforms stained with a greenish-brown froth. In horror, he watched as they fled the gas. Those who remembered to run away from the German lines quickly stumbled in their confusion, falling to the ground and convulsing with pain as they coughed up bile and bits of lung. Some became trapped in the entanglement of barbed wire, and they thrashed against it in vain attempts to escape. A few machine guns abruptly cut through the air, slaughtering the trapped soldiers like they were simply target-practice.

Remi’s skin now felt like it was burning, and his eyes watered intensely. Claude must have felt the same, as he was just about to wipe his eyes with his sleeves before Remi grabbed his wrist hard.

“Don’t!” He said, his frantic voice like sandpaper. “Don’t do that! They are blind! It blinds you!”

Claude quickly put his arm back down as he blinked several times to clear the tears from his eyes.

‘What the hell do we do!?’ Remi thought, afraid that if he spoke his throat would tear itself to shreds.

Claude grabbed his gun and bag, then replied, ‘We move. The wind is blowing this gas away from us, towards the soldiers we passed half a kilo or so to the north.’ A machine gun burst out again, and Claude flinched. ‘They are trying to draw us out into gunfire, so we have to stay low, but we have to move back towards the trenches farther south and get the hell out of here.’

Remi could feel Claude’s pain and discomfort at his burning skin, which only made him notice his more. At least Claude was still maintaining a level head, and he seemed to understand that what they were feeling was nothing compared to those who were directly in the line of the gas. The sound of guns continued while Remi nodded and also took his rifle in his hand, gripping the wooden barrel tightly.

‘I’ll follow you.’ He said, pressing himself into the ground. Claude had already started crawling out of the hole, slowly but frantically. The water in the mud made his hands sting as Remi also crept over the edge, out into the open. Any German could now easily glance in their direction and see them both, light blue figures set strikingly against the dark mud, and kill them in an instant. Remi moved forward, the hysterical thoughts of the fleeing and dying men still lingered in his mind like a dull ache, seeming to come from all sides. Unpleasant as it was, the more Remi focused on his skin and how it prickled and stung, the less heavy the thoughts were, so that's exactly what he did.

Then they were in the next crater. Claude glanced back quickly, his eyes bloodshot and watering, before continuing on - up, and out of the hole again. Remi stayed close behind him, but when he crawled out onto the field a second time, he let out a short groan at how much land was still between them and the trench. The crushing fear was enough to keep him there, as there was certainly no way he would make it out of No Man’s Land alive. He became tense and froze, overwhelmed with the sheer amount of will it would take just to convince himself to move. His anguish grew and twisted until it was louder than any gun and heavier than a planet. Then, suddenly, it propelled him forward; a burst of hope, of instinctual survival, a desperate attempt at life despite the odds.

Agonisingly, the two soldiers clambered through the mud, up and down, closer and closer to the trench. Fear grew as they ascended, and relief flooded over them on each descent, which only amplified the terror at the inevitable next hill. Still, they pushed on, and after what felt like hours, they reached the barbed wire. Remi was suddenly filled with excitement, like an electric current had transformed all of his fear into endless energy. They were almost safe. He crawled more quickly, his uniform getting caught on the spikes and tearing, in some places cutting into his skin. Adrenaline numbed the pain, though, and after pausing only to free his bag from a knot of wire, he was in the trench, Claude dropping in behind him. They stared at each other, two trembling souls in big coats, faces plastered with muck and exhaustion and fear. Remi imagined what he must have looked like: a boy not even 20 years old, shaken to the core, trembling so much that he feared he would break apart if he had to take another step. His body felt much too feeble to be able to handle any of this, yet he knew it had no other choice.

“We can’t stay here,” Claude said, his voice cracking like embers in a dying fire. “We need to get behind the lines, to safety.”

“We’re abandoning our post without permission…” Remi muttered, somewhat surprised by how empty and meaningless his words sounded.

“Our post has been compromised. Come on, we need to go.” Claude answered, then pushed past Remi and ran down the trench.

Remi hurried after him, and soon they found a supply trench stretching out on their right. They followed it without hesitation. After a time, the tunnel levelled out and became a road, and the two slowed down to a jog, then a trot, and finally a walking pace as they passed blown up trees and scorched farms. The burning in their skin and eyes had lessened to an uncomfortable prickling sensation, which was now being overpowered by the stinging cuts from the barbed wire and the pain of fatigue. Eventually, they saw a few white shapes in the distance and came to realise they were walking towards a field hospital. 

As they approached, disoriented and dehydrated, stumbling over small rocks as their feet mechanically placed themselves one in front of the other, they could see nurses rushing around between countless men. Soon, they came into clear view, and Remi was struck with a new kind of horror as he saw piles of dead, shrivelled bodies, drowned on dry land by gas. Those who were still alive were treated for all kinds of injuries - gunshot wounds, missing limbs, and blindness being the most abundant. A pungent smell lingered in the air, and Remi wondered what could possibly be so sour until the sound of someone retching revealed the answer. The weight of thoughts returned, and Remi pressed his fingers against his temples in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. He would rather listen to their unintelligible moans than the lurid but clear things they held in their minds.

A young nurse with blonde hair and a long face hurried up to them, asking if they were injured in a low, smooth voice that didn’t quite seem like it belonged to her. She was obviously British as she spoke to them with badly pronounced, broken French. Claude answered before Remi had the chance, which he was thankful for - he wasn’t sure he would have been able to speak, anyways. He told the nurse that they had only got a bit of gas that was carried with some stray wind, that they were fine, but separated from their unit and completely expended. He then asked the nurse if anyone was there from their company, to which she thought for a moment and replied that there wasn’t; he asked if she knew where to find them, to which she also responded negatively. Claude nodded and finally asked for some water, to which the nurse promptly saw. The water stung their throats at first but soon felt refreshing, and they chugged it greedily, not stopping until every drop was gone. Claude thanked the nurse and wished her luck before gesturing to Remi to follow him. 

“Where are we going?” Remi asked as they set off down the road again. With the hospital now behind them, the road stretched out ahead, bare and long, the setting sun calmly slipping away behind the horizon like nothing had happened. 

Claude shrugged, his shoulders hopping up weakly as he trudged forward, hunched over with a glowing cigarette between his teeth. “Behind the lines. Hopefully we can find Masson and see how many of us survived, and not get accused of deserting.” His voice was hauntingly empty, even when talking about a potential execution sentence.

Remi stared at the ground while his numb body carried him forward. The buzz of crickets filled the air, and the world was rich with colour and the thick smell of spring. It all made Remi sick with resentment, but towards what he could not say. It wasn’t the world’s fault, but could he even blame the Germans? They were just carrying out orders. It could have easily been the other way around, with them being the victims of a French or English attack. Perhaps he was angry at the French and English as well as the Germans, but more specifically those who had the power to create these weapons and plans, and those who ultimately decided to deploy them. 

But, instead of trying to figure out an impossible answer to an obscure question, Remi started to sing a tune they often sang while marching. His eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds, struggling against the sleep that so desperately called out to him, that clawed at him and tempted him with its sweet embrace. But he couldn’t give in, not yet. Remi opened his eyes again as Claude joined in. While it was rough and off-key, what he had said earlier about his voice sounding like a dying horse was obviously false. They sang together, their voices like an arid wind, as they walked towards the sun and towards indefinite turmoil.


End file.
